


Blogger for Hire

by Ragnhild



Series: Blogger for Hire [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternative First Meeting, Assassin AU, Assassin John, BAMF John, John's POV, M/M, Not Dark!John, Sherlock and John get along really well, Trying to stay in character, assassin!john, now with fanart, one chapter Sherlock's POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragnhild/pseuds/Ragnhild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John came home from Afghanistan he didn't meet Sherlock right away. No, John became an assassin for hire. For months John and Sherlock played a game of cat and mouse before they met face to face. Strangely enough, the chemistry was there right from the start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Accidental Assassin

**Author's Note:**

> This is not Dark!John. This is an alternative meeting AU and I’m trying to keep John as much in character as possible. John is however a BAMF. A bit inspired by “In Which John is a Cuddly, BAMF Assassin” by notbeloved07. Just… with less crack I guess?
> 
> Also, English is not my first language. If you see any mistakes which you think is especially offensive to your eyes, please let me know.

John never planned to become an assassin for hire. He was an army doctor after all; someone who mended and repaired, not someone who broke and destroyed. He had killed in the army (he _did_ have bad days), but that wasn’t who he was. It wasn’t who he chose to be. He was supposed to be someone who made people grow to be greater than themselves, make them rise above their limitations, like what he had tried, and failed, to make his sister. Like he had tried to make his poor mother, and her husband, his father, who hadn’t been there for her like he should have. These attempts had failed, but he would continue trying to make people grow until the day he died. The thing was, he didn’t die. He was shot, and he survived, and there was no one there to make _him_ be greater than himself.

-

It was good to be back in London, all things considered. It was raining just as much as John remembered, it was all too cold compared to Afghanistan, and he looked like a broken, old man with a cane. Luckily he had found a warm, woolen jumper in his closet. It was actually quite comfortable, he should buy more of those. At least then he would have something to do tomorrow as well. His greatest challenge would be to come up with something to do the day after. And the day after. And the day after.

Limping into a café he looked around. He hadn’t quite rid himself of the habit of scanning for exits and possible threats. His brain somehow refused to acknowledge that he was now a civilian, but today he would consider it good luck, because if he hadn’t then he wouldn’t have noticed the familiar woman sitting at the table in the back. She was resting her forehead on her hands and looked absolutely devastated. Had it been almost anyone else John would have pretended not to have noticed. He limped over and laid his hands gently at the table to get her attention.

“What a coincidence to see you here, Laura. How have you been holding up?” he asked quietly. Her head snapped up and she looked confused for a moment before she broke out in a grin.

“Dr. Watson! What are you doing here?” Then she almost blushed at her own words. “Forgive my manners. Please have a seat. How are you doing?” Laura was a remarkable pretty woman, with long, dark hair. She had been married to a fellow soldier who had died in the line of duty during one of the early years John was deployed. John had taken leave to be able to attend the funeral in London, where he had met the young wife, Laura, and she had cried on his shoulder. He hadn’t seen her since. He took the seat opposite her.

“I was shot and got a honourable discharge. Other than that I’m doing pretty well. How about you, Laura?” He placed his hands over each other on the table in a nonthreatening way and spoke gently as if to a wild animal. Who would have thought that letting a woman cry on your shoulder once many years ago would make you feel like it was your duty to make sure she was happy? Maybe he felt like he was responsible for her husband’s death. If he’d been at the right place and time he could have prevented it. She gasped and expressed all the regular condolences about his condition before talking about herself, the picture of politely correct.

“Good. I’m good. I got remarried.” She told John about the marriage to a high profile politician John could vaguely remember having seen on TV, and only then did John notice the fine clothing and the expensive jewelry. He had never been a judgmental man, but she was clearly much younger than her current husband (she had been younger than her previous husband as well), and with her pretty face, nicely done hair and pricey cloths she looked like a trophy wife. She talked in a normal voice and hadn’t John seen her prior to their conversation he wouldn’t have guessed anything amiss. Ten minutes into their nice, little chat John couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Laura, what is wrong?” he asked mildly and almost instantly her mask began to crack and her eyes became teary. It was just like at the funeral. _“How are you really doing?”_ he had asked her then.

“I’ve done something really stupid, John,” she said and the tears ran down her cheeks. “I should never have married Martin. He is a wonderful man. The best there is, but I have done some horrible mistakes during collage. A couple of porn movies…” She was bright red and pointedly staring down at the table as the tears streamed down her cheeks. John guessed it was easier to talk about this with a stranger than someone she knew. “… really nasty ones. With three guys and, and… I had no self-respect. I let them do anything. And I never told Martin, and he’s very serious about his career. He’s determined to reach far. He doesn’t even have a speeding ticket, he’s so worried about his reputation.” By this point it had turned into rambling. The words just fell out of her mouth. “I knew all this, and I still married him, and now I’m being blackmailed. He’s asked for money, for me to take documents from Martin’s office, and a lot of horrible things. I can’t even divorce Martin, he would publish the movies.” Laura carefully looked up at John. Her make-up was ruined. “And now, tonight, he’s asked me to come to his apartment personally. And to wear sexy, red underwear.”

“Do you know who he is and where he lives?” John asked in a neutral voice.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure it’s just him and that he hasn’t any accomplices? Someone he could have shown the movies to?”

“Yes, I know him. He wants it all for himself.”

“Would you want to give me his name and address? I could go in your place tonight and have a talk with him.”

“You’d do that?!” she gasped happily with her hands in front of her mouth.

“Yeah, but I would appreciate it if you don’t tell people about me or try to contact me. It would be best for you if no one knows we met today.”

“Of course, of course. No problem,” she smiled and wrote down the address. John almost forgot his cane when he left the café.

-

John was wearing a dark hoodie and nondescript jeans as he walked up the stairs of the apartment building. The cane was nowhere to be seen. It was a worn-down place, but not dirty. Luckily he didn’t meet anyone in the corridors, or maybe luck didn’t have so much to do with it. It was after all late at night, a time this guy had chosen so no one would see Laura arriving.

When standing in front of the right door he pulled out his gun from the waistband at the small of his back and undid the safety. The silencer had been easy enough to procure. He knocked while holding the hand with the gun nonthreateningly at his side.

“Hey, bab… Who are you?” the jerk said as he opened the door, glass of red wine in his hand.

“Mark Bateman?” John asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, just saw the recognition on his face and took a threateningly step forward. The jerk took an equivalent step backwards into his apartment, clear of the door. John raised his gun and fired three shots in the guy’s chest. The wine glass crashed to the ground as he fell backwards. John stepped back and out of the apartment. He closed the door with a hand covered with medical gloves and he left the building the way he came in.

-

About two months later John got an e-mail from an unknown address. It said:

_To Dr. John Watson._

_Laura told me you’re the person to contact if you have a problem. Would you mind a lunch meeting at Wednesday? I will of course pay you well for your trouble._

And like that John became an assassin for hire.


	2. The Man with the Icy Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then he looked up and looked straight at John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t get this to fit completely with the original storyline in the show since “A Study in Pink” happened shortly after John returned from Afghanistan. Let’s just pretend like Moriarty had the flu or something more serious and decided to wait a little before letting loose a murderous cabbie on the city. And now: Enter Sherlock.

The little cross waved over the face of the pale man with the dark, curly hair. Just when the cross was positioned nicely at the man’s forehead he moved again. John cursed. Some people just didn’t know to stay still. John huffed and made himself more comfortable where he laid on the roof, before he peered into the aim of the sniper rifle again. The light was good this crisp autumn morning and he had a good view of the park where the dark haired man was moving around, waving with his hands and coat swishing. John decided to call him Coat to keep it simple. Coat wasn’t alone; he was together with a whole crew of people. Through the aim John saw Coat gesture and talk to a man with graying hair. That man would be Gray John decided and nodded to himself. Gray seemed dejected, rolled his eyes at the other’s words, and hid his face in his hands. John had to snigger to himself. He guessed Gray would be more careful what he wished for if he knew a sniper had his aim at Coat’s forehead. Of course they had nothing to fear, John wasn’t stupid enough to shoot a police investigator with a lot of police officers around. The safety was on and everything.

Coat gestured to the dead body of Carl Mitchell at the ground, said something, and someone else, the one on forensic apparently, started shouting at him. Coat ignored him completely and lifted his arm and moved it around like he was feeling for something, like a psychic feeling for ghosts. Then he looked up and looked straight at John. John snapped his head back away from the aim. John was currently three blocks away, pressed flat on the roof of a five storey building and in shadows. There was no way anyone could see him at that distance. He put his eye to the aim again and saw the man’s intense, icy eyes still looking at him. _In his direction,_ John mentally corrected himself. It was still unnerving. Coat pointed right at where John was and his mouth was moving. He was telling the others at the crime scene where the sniper shot had been fired from.

That was John’s cue. He quickly and effectively disassembled the sniper rifle and put it in its case, which was design to look like a regular suitcase. He went over to the door to get down from the roof, and once inside he took his cane which he had rested against the wall. He didn’t really need the cane these days. It was more a disguise than anything else. He looked down himself and dusted off the gravel from his woolen jumper.

He limped out into the corridor of the retirement home. If anyone asked where he was headed then he had just visited Mr. Johnson on the fourth floor. The poor man was too demented to remember anyway. When he was at the ground floor and walking towards the exit, two police officers entered. They walked straight past John and didn’t even look at him.

-

That had been a too close call. John had some rules and he had broken two of them today. The first was ‘never be connected to the targets or the scenes of assassination.’ Check. The second was ‘leave the scene immediately after the job is done.’ That had kind of failed today. The third was ‘don’t go back to the scenes,’ and he wouldn’t. The fourth was ‘don’t dress like an assassin,’ because John had really wanted to get a cool leather jacket, maybe some sunglasses, but he just had to resist. Everyone was much less inclined to suspect a man approaching forty with a cane and dressed in woolen jumpers. And most important, the fifth rule was ‘don’t take any risks.’ John had done that today. He didn’t have any elaborate masterplan on how to avoid getting caught. He just made sure there was nothing to connect himself to the target, and made sure to disappear as soon it was done. These five rules was the only thing separating him and a lifetime in prison. He wouldn’t be one of those vain villains in movies that had to return to the crime scene to bask in their own cleverness. Still, now he understood why it was a saying that the culprit always returned to the scene. He’d always thought it horrible stupid, but now he knew what an immense temptation it was. What happened after the job was done? Where they close to catching him? Did they find any clues?

Today he’d stayed behind because the stupid curiosity couldn’t be seated any longer. The target had been found almost immediately by an early morning jogger, and John had decided this was possibly the safest opportunity he would get. The police arrived shortly after and started to secure the crime scene and interview the witness. The technicians used longer, the investigators even longer, and the last to arrive was the man with the dark hair and intense eyes. Coat. Staying had been wrong, and he would never do that again. Pride goes before a fall.

John put the sniper rifle behind the improvised false back wall in his closet at the small bedsit he rented from the army. He had money now so he _could_ afford better, but all the money he earned was in cash. Besides, it would look suspicious to suddenly move to a nice flat. Just like the leather jacket and motorbike he was contemplating. Maybe he should have washed the money so he could put them in a bank account, but he didn’t really know how to.

He didn’t go to great lengths to hide his rifle either. He wouldn’t go and lock his rifle in a safety box at the train station or any such each time he had to use it. He thought if the police really paid him a visit looking for a killer for hire then the game was pretty much over anyway. Trying to get away with it after that point would take a lot of effort and energy, and he would live in constant fear of getting found out. In the end they would find the rifle and he would end up in prison anyway. No, if they came then he wouldn’t hide or run; he had disobeyed the law after all. Of course, he wouldn’t confess either, no point in making it too easy on them.

He sat down with his computer and began searching for old news articles where police officers had given statements and was referred to with name. One he found easily enough: DI Greg Lestrade. John easily recognized Gray from the photograph. It was an article about a press conference he had given about some gang killings. The dark haired man, on the other hand, John couldn’t find anywhere. He went to sleep that night thinking of those intense eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think this is moving too slowly? Does it need some more action? I've decided to add a chapter with Sherlock's POV so we get to see some crime scene investigation.


	3. Murder Dinner Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, he was getting vain, and it wasn’t just because his idea of a perfect day at work was to lounge at the couch, cup of tea in hand, and assassinate someone. Or maybe the word he was looking for was crazy, not vain?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drawing is to sleepypolarbears who made me laugh with her comment. Just a quicky to test my new wacom. It's a bit wobbly.

I’m getting vain, was John’s thought as he laid there on his stomach on the couch. Of course, it wasn’t his own couch, it was more expensive, and much more comfortable than that. Adjusting the sniper rifle so he laid perfectly comfortable he also thought: I could get used to doing my job like this. He’d been lucky to discover that the family at fifth floor in the block opposite Mr. Glen Lawrence was leaving for holiday. They really should get themselves a proper alarm system, maybe John should write them a note. Or maybe the fact that someone broke into their apartment and used it to assassinate someone would get the message across just as efficiently. After all, they should consider themselves lucky; it wasn’t like John was there to steal anything. Even though the tea in the kitchen became increasingly tempting as the time went by. John yawned where he laid on the couch in the darkened living room. After having moved the couch a bit it was positioned perfectly to have a good view out the full size windows and into the apartment across the street. 

Yes, he was getting vain, and it wasn’t just because his idea of a perfect day at work was to lounge at the couch, cup of tea in hand, and assassinate someone. Or maybe the word he was looking for was crazy, not vain? No, he was getting vain because he as much as entertained the thought of _making it a bit more exciting_. Where he laid in the dark he was thinking of the icy eyes looking straight at him; the eyes which could calculate his exact position within seconds. John was thinking of ways to make it more challenging for Coat to riddle it out. 

John shook his head. The goal was to not get caught, not making a murder dinner party for a police investigator. He didn’t do this for fun or for entertainment. This was a human life after all. Not something to play with. ‘Don’t play with your food’ was a line that came to John’s mind and he felt ashamed at the thought.

A husband had paid John to kill his wife’s rapist. She had a blue eye and split lip when John met them at the café for a casual meeting. Glen Lawrence had been charged for rape before but the charges were dropped somehow. Now the wife was pregnant. John had agreed with the husband that they shouldn’t report it to the police. 

John watched through the sniper aim at Lawrence saying good bye to his two children, a boy and a girl, as their mother came to pick them up. They had a mother to take care of them and most likely only saw their father at week-ends. Sometimes when he was still a kid and his father had drunk himself into oblivion and his mother was crying John would wish his father would just die.  He didn’t know what he would do if his father actually died. Surly a father who raped women wasn’t a good role model for his children(?). Or maybe the children would never know and grow up to be perfect adults. It was possible to be good adults without a father as well. The target sat down on his couch, closed his eyes and rested his head back. Tired after a long day with work and child play. John took aim and pulled the trigger.

-

John was reading the news article about the horrible murder of Glen Lawrence (34), father of two. DI Lestrade commented that this most likely was the work of a professional and that they had several leads and used all their resources to catch the criminal. They always said they had several leads. If that really meant something then John would be roughed up a bit in prison right now, rater then comfortably reading the news at his laptop. John didn’t like to think of himself as a criminal or a murder, though. He always thought he was somehow justified in what he did, but if he someday didn’t feel any guilt anymore then he knew that was the day to stop.

But a couple of words from the article stood out to John: ‘All resources’ meant Coat would be on the case, right? John felt a pleasant tingling down his spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you feel John stays in character? Of course being an assassin would change him a bit, but I want him to be a kind person. The next chapter will be from Sherlock’s POV.


	4. Wool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Definitely wool. He bagged the fibers in a small evidence bag and put it in his inner pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed this chapter a bit. The dialogue is mostly the same, but I changed how Lestrade and Sherlock interact, with less fondness you could say.

Sherlock plucked fibers from the couch (dark blue, coarse tread count, cotton) with a pair of tweezers. He took out his magnifying glass and observed the small piece of evidence. The fibers were short, slightly curly, elastic, bleached and coloured off-white or beige. Definitely wool. To know more he would have to use a microscope. He bagged the fibers in a small evidence bag and put it in his inner pocket. 

He was vaguely aware of some white noise in the background. Apparently Lestrade was making a fuss about the broken window, something about it making the investigation harder. The initial hole in the window had been small, but the heavy wind during the night had made the large, full size window give away under its own weight, and now the living room was littered with broken glass. The clear January sunshine filtered in and shone on the thousands of small pieces. It sparkled like snow on a sunny day. 

Sherlock turned to the room at large and tuned out Lestrade’s nagging. The glass wasn’t really a problem for someone with the right brain capacity. Sherlock gazed at the thousands of pieces and entered his mind palace. In his mind he saw the pieces skitter over the floor and back towards the open hole, and they mended themselves together like a giant jigsaw until they were a solid glass surface again. Between the searching and slightly hesitant footprints of police officers and forensics (treading careful not to destroy evidence) a pair of confident and self-assured prints stood out. In Sherlock mind they rose above the floor. Sensible shoes, snickers, regular, inexpensive, too common to be possible to trace, but just as good as any fingerprint if they found the shoe. Based on the length of the steps the killer would be 5.6 – 5.7 feet tall. Sherlock was fairly aware of being on his hands and knees. 

In his mind palace Sherlock could see a shadow person rise from the prints. Sherlock followed the shadow where it walked the route the killer had taken through the apartment. The shadow forced open the door with a crowbar, and immediately took a round through the apartment to get familiar with his surroundings. The killer didn’t stop and didn’t touch anything; there was no hesitation, doubt or the smallest waver in the steps at all, just self-assurance and a sense of being self-justified. 

The shadow assassin looked at the couch and decided it had the right height and he pushed it over to the window where he could get a perfect vantage point. Sherlock saw the killer settling on the couch, aiming a sniper rifle over the armrest. He was rubbing light coloured fibers into the couch. The fibers were singularly wool, no hair. Based on the amount of wool fibers and the coarseness of the couch Sherlock estimated he had been laying there for near to two hours. Give or take fifteen minutes depending on how still he laid. So two hours and the killer didn’t lose any hair. His hair would have to be well groomed and/or short, possible military cut. The mind shadow on the couch was beginning to take more physical form, and Sherlock could see his height, his sweater, his shoes and his hair, though the hair didn't have any colour.    

“Are you ready to share with the rest of the class, or will I have to throw you out of here?” Lestrade question broke though Sherlock’s thoughts and based on the agitation and volume of his voice Sherlock would estimate he’d been trying to get contact for close to five minutes. Sherlock looked around and the shimmering glass was back on the floor and there was no shadow assassin lying on the couch aiming a sniper rifle towards the apartment across the street. 

“Is it the same guy?” Lestrade asked with his arms crossed over his chest while shifting from foot to foot, glass crunching under his feet. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock threw back and pretended like he wasn’t done exanimating the couch. 

“Clearly a professional. The door was forced open with minimal damage. Not much to go on though,” Lestrade sighed. 

“Oh, please don’t be naïve. Breaking open the door was the least professional thing the killer did. Of course he's a professional, but you reached that conclusion based on all the wrong evidence.” Sherlock threw out his arms in dramatic dejectedness. 

“Okay, _genius,_ tell us dimwits how it really is,” the inspector said while his hands curled into fists. Sherlock swirled around so his coat swished for dramatic effect. 

“The bullet they dug out of the wall was from a sniper rifle. A kill shot through two windows with double layered glass at that distance,” Sherlock rattled off at lightning speed, “that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. According to the ex-wife’s testimony she’d just picked up the kids. He stayed in position on the couch for several hours waiting for the children to leave, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel.” 

“Nerves of steel or just plain lazy,” a condescending voice said. “Staying on the couch for hours doesn’t sound like such a hardship to me,” Donovan said as she strolled in the door. Pumps, nice, expensive blouse, semi expensive perfume. Trying to impress Anderson, too bad he wasn’t at forensics that day. “You said you were done with the body so we’ve moved it. It’s on its way to the morgue,” she informed. 

“There’s nothing lazy about it, _Donovan_. It was the best vantage point and the only logical choice. No, going after a married man instead of getting a real relationship, that’s laziness,” he said with a just as condescending toss of his head. 

“Why so defensive, freak? He’s your boyfriend or something?” she said and crossed her hands over her chest and threw her head back. A move to seem untouchable and unfazed, but also a defensive move. “You're swapping notes on how to mutilate someone over breakfast?” 

“Enough, you! Donovan, go get me the photographers at forensics,” Lestrade barked at her and she went with a sniff. “How is this connected to Carl Mitchell?” he barked at Sherlock. The detective thought about antagonize Lestrade further, but he really wanted to get home to examine the wool fibers. 

“The victim in the park was abusing his girlfriend,” Sherlock said as he stippled his fingers under his chin. “That was no secret, neither to the neighbours nor the family. She admitted she feared for her life if she tried to leave. We know she paid someone to kill him since we have the bank records of a large withdrawal. Sadly she won’t talk, but it is possible she actually doesn’t know anything about him.  She’s not a good liar, but she’s managed to stay tight lipped about this.” The detective swirled around again and went over to the gaping hole that used to be a window, walking on glass snow. “A woman paid the same man to kill our current victim. It wasn’t the same woman and neither was it the ex-wife; she didn’t have any motive, they’re divorced and she’s quite happy with it. No, Lawrence is dead because he raped someone.” That made Lestrade’s eyebrows jump up. 

“How do you know that?” he gaped. 

“He had claw marks on his arms, pretty deep, clearly made in self-defense, a couple of weeks old. It’s not the kind of marks you get from consensual sex, which usually are located at the back or more intimate places. The only logical conclusion: Rape. The victim has an influential father, most likely politics, evident from the letters in his drawer. Most likely he’s gotten away with rape repeatedly. Check the system if anyone has reported any resent charges against him.” Sherlock looked down into the street six storeys below. The wind was dragging at his coat and there was nothing between him and a deadly fall. “This is some kind of domestic abuse killer. Helping women in need. He’s ice cold and believes he’s justified in what he does, some kind of vigilante, a gentleman…” Sherlock trailed off, looking at the small people passing by in the street below, trying to deduce the shadow assassin’s characteristics. Lestrade was taking notes. 

“Domestic abuse killer. Got it. Anything else?” he asked, still scribbling furiously, but occasionally glancing up to where Sherlock stood too close to the edge. 

“Easiest way to find the killer is to either trace down where he got the sniper rifle or find out how the women contact him. Possibly they find him at the web and then it will be traceable. Make sure you check the CCTV, looking for a man clothed in off-white or beige wool, about 5.7 feet tall, and military haircut.” 

“I’ll never figure out how you do it, you nutter,” Lestrade said shaking his head while adding the last period to his notes. 

“How are you doing with those serial suicides, Lestrade? Are you stumped yet?” Sherlock shot back. That last part had sounded a bit too fond. 

“Not your case. This is your case,” the inspector said grimly with a voice Sherlock was much more comfortable with. 

- 

Later that evening Sherlock got a call from the Yard. He was currently posing as ‘mother_of_two79’ at about fifty different internet forums for women, claiming to be abused of her husband and fearing for her own and her children's lives. So far he’d got twelve different numbers or addresses to web pages of support groups, police or similar, forty-three well meant, but stupid advises, and sixty-nine exclamations of support; none which suggested he kill the bastard nor gave him an e-mail to someone who could (Well, there had been twenty-one of them who expressed a wish for the bastard to die, but none who suggested how he should go about it). Sherlock still had a slim hope of getting a private message within the next days, but by now it didn’t seem likely. Apparently the killer wasn’t stupid enough to use the internet for communication. It was possible the word just was passed from mouth to mouth. 

The yard would look for people who had legally acquired a sniper rifle, and Sherlock’s homeless network would look for people who had illegally acquired a sniper rifle. Right now Sherlock didn’t feel too optimistic for that either. He passed the phone over to his ear. 

“You know I hate talking in the phone, Lestrad,” was Sherlock’s only greeting. Lestrade pretended like he hadn’t heard. 

“There was no one entering or exiting the building that fit your description. There was a woman with a pram, long hair, of about thirty, a couple of lovebirds of about twenty years of age, a man with a cane of about forty, two men in suits of about thirty, and two kids, about twelve and fifteen. The woman with the pram and the man with the limp were the only ones who were wearing white.” 

“Or beige. Further analysis has shown that it’s bleached merino wool coloured beige, not off-white. By knowing the diameter, crimp and yield of the fiber I can differ between two seemingly identical fib…” 

“Yes, I’m sure you can,” Lestrade cut him off with a sigh and a strangely overbearing voice. “Please don’t make an article about wool fibers on your web page. I won’t read it. Could the domestic abuse killer be a woman? The pram could be for cover.” 

“No, the feet were too big,” Sherlock said with an indignant sniff. He would find a way to get back at the inspector for cutting him off. He was keeping a tab of all the annoying things the man did. “None of them is the killer, but you should bring them in for questioning. Maybe they saw something.” His voice trailed off as ‘Lily43’ just posted a fascinating comment about slitting of stomachs and frying intestines in oil. 

“Will you be ther…?” The question was cut midsentence as Sherlock cut the connection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank you for any suggestions for the story. I really take it to heart.


	5. New Scotland Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John Watson? This is the Metropolitan Police District. Excuse me, sir, where were you at the 15th of January?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by dana_san’s suggestions. If anyone else want to suggest something then just go ahead. I won’t change the storyline I’ve planned, so don’t worry. 
> 
> I know nothing about London police. Hell, I know nearly nothing about police work at all. My contact with the police has been limited and where everything else fails my imagination win through. If someone wants to give me some pointers on how to make it more accurate, please give me a message.

“And, and, and he won’t even let me see him. It has been months and not even a phone call. My little angle…” The rest of the sentence was unintelligible because of the woman’s crying. John was holding her hand across the table at the little café. They were sitting in a boot in the corner to give her some privacy. Her red nails were boring into John’s palm.  They were long and well-tended to, but the polish was peeling. Her head was tilted forward so the long, blond hair was covering her face and John could see the dark roots.

“But Tina, there has to be someone you can talk to… a lawyer or…”

“No, there’s no use,” she cut him off, “his lawyer is too good. We’ve been to court twice and his lawyer makes it sound like I’m a monster who doesn’t take proper care of Even. It’s not like any parents are perfect, and I’ve really tried my best. For a period it was very stressful at work and I forgot to pick him up form piano lessons, and once I misunderstood when I talked to another mother about at which of our houses the kids should have a sleepover, but I’m really not a bad mother!” She was shaking with her tears, and she dried her nose on her sleeve. John could see the elbows of her expensive, red blazer was worn. 

“Listen to me, Tina,” John said with a reassuring squeeze on her hand, “I can’t take this job. It was wrong of him to throw you out on the street with nowhere to go, and to not let you see your son, but he’s not a bad father. I understand that you can’t see any other way out of this, but it would hurt Even to lose his father.” The woman began shaking even more. 

“I- I have the money. I’ve got the money. I have enough.” She hid her tear wet face behind her hand. John didn’t know which one made her more shameful; the crying, how she’d got the money, or what she was asking of him.

“I don’t want your money.” He reached into his bag and got out a roll of pound bills. He took her arm away from her face and placed the roll between her clammy hands and covered hers with his own. “Take this and get yourself a good lawyer. I’m sorry, Tina, but there’s no other way I can help you.” The sobbing intensified, but he didn’t know if it was from gratefulness or sorrow. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone that we met here today. You can’t tell anyone about me and you can never contact me again.” She just nodded a lot before John also pushed a tissue into her hand and sent her out of the café.

“Thank you, John,” she whispered into his ear before she vanished. 

John stayed for a while finishing his tea. They always told someone about him even though they promised not to. If they held their promises then he would be workless. At least no one had told the police yet, as far as he knew. After Laura he made sure none of them knew who he actually was and no one got hold of his e-mail or phone number which they could pass on. They only knew there was a man named John who often passed through a certain park, and if they sat down at a bench between 3 and 4 pm at Thursdays then he would sit down next to them and ask them how their day had been. John always knew if the woman, or occasional man, who was sitting in ‘his’ park at that time was a client or not. He could tell. 

No, it was time to move along before Tina realized how much money she was holding between her hands and decided to come back to return them. He really had a soft spot for crying women, so he better vanish before he offered her to stay at his place or something equally stupid. 

- 

The phone call from the police made John’s heart jump into his throat. Had Tina contacted the authorities? No, she didn’t know who he was, it couldn’t be possible. It was two hours since he’d seen her and he was currently standing in the middle of a Tesco, buying his groceries for the week. 

“John Watson? This is the Metropolitan Police District. Excuse me, sir, where were you at the 15th of January?” a woman’s voice asked. John’s brain was turning at 90 miles per hour asking questions like ‘How do they know?’, ‘What did I do wrong?’ and ‘How is it even possible?’ before a rational part of his brain was shouting over the noise ‘Stick to the plan! Stick to the plan!’ The plan was to stick to the truth as much as he could. That way it was less a risk to be caught lying. 

The pause was sort enough to be a convincing thinking pause to consider where he’d been. He told her honestly the address of where he’d been. 

“Very well. There was committed a crime at that address at the 15th and we want you to come down to New Scotland Yard to give a statement.” The woman sounded disinterested, but polite. 

“Is this about the father who was murdered?” John asked, trying to sound, well, anything other than terrified and horrible relieved at the same time. “I didn’t really see anything. I was visiting a friend and only saw it at the news some days later. How did you know how to contact me?” 

“That is confidential, and we would still like to get your testimony of the evening, sir. Would you be able to come in the day after tomorrow?” 

“Couldn’t we do it today? I would like to get it over with.” John could feel it would be a lot of lost sleep if he let this wait. He didn’t need to plan because he wouldn’t come up with anything smart. He didn’t have a master plan, only his rules. There was a pause and the sound of clicking at a keyboard over the phone. 

“I could fit you in today. Is 2 pm okay with you?” Of course it was. He thanked her and left the trolley with his groceries in the middle of the store. 

- 

There had been a news report asking witnesses to come forth, accompanied with grainy photos. Of course John had seen it, he followed the case very closely. The photo was so blurry that he wasn't worried, no one would recognize him. Well, almost no one. He sat at a bench not far from the Tesco where he abandoned his groceries and dialed the number. 

She picked up at the fifth ring.

“Hi, Johnny. Do you need money? Because I don’t have any.” It was the only greeting she ever gave him, like some kind of an inside joke, which was a bit strange since she was the only one of the two of them who ever asked for money. 

“Hi, Harry. It’s nice to hear your voice as well. Now, how should I put this? Have you been in contact with the police lately?” He couldn’t help the sarcastic voice. It was that or yelling at her. 

“Is this about that witness thing? I saw you at TV and called the police and told them it was you.” John felt like banging his head into something. 

“How about next time you tell _me_ that you’ve seen me at TV, so that _I_ can call the police instead of being called up by the police in the middle of my grocery shopping and sounding like a fool because I don’t know what to say?” John hissed into the phone. 

“Why? Do you plan to be wanted by the police often?” He could hear the smile in her voice. He hung up on her. 

- 

He had been waiting in the waiting room at New Scotland Yard for half an hour. At least now he knew he wasn’t a suspect; they would never have let a suspect wait for this long. 

“Mr. Watson?” called a young police officer. He had short, spiky hair which looked like it was meant to look like the cops in action movies. John met his eyes purposefully, but the officer kept looking around the room for Mr. Watson. 

“I am _Dr_. Watson,” John said as he rose, leaning heavily on his cane. The officer didn’t seem to take notice of the pressure on _Dr_., but he did seem to notice the cane and he slowed down considerably to help John keep up as they walked down the corridor from the waiting room. John felt himself get irritated even though it was in his favour that the officer believed it was a fulltime limp and not a part-time. Honestly, he wasn’t _that_ old. 

Officer Dent, as he turned out to be, led John to an interrogation room. It wasn’t like the interrogation rooms in films; scary with a large table in the middle. Maybe this wasn’t an interrogation room, maybe it was a witness room. It had comfortable looking chairs, positioned next to each other rather than opposite, with a little round table between. Dent told John that he was in training, but his mentor would be in the next room if John had any questions Dent couldn’t answer. John was very, very okay with this. Further he explained that the conversation would be taped and that John should tell what happened in his own words. He should not speculate or draw conclusions. If he was asked a question he was uncomfortable with or didn’t want to answer then it was better to say he didn’t want to answer rather than giving a false statement. John silently doubted this in his case. 

He had some rules if worse came to worse and he was questioned by the police. He was to avoid lying if possible, not over explain things, and trying to talk as little as possible about, well, anything really, to lower the risk of saying something wrong. Most of those rules were out the window right now. He’d done his research before the assassination and he knew the names of all the families living in the block opposite Glen Lawrence, and that was how he’d discovered the family that was at holiday. 

John chose the Matthews, and began telling about his nice visit to a family friend. The Matthews were the family furthest from the apartment where he’d actually been, so it would be believable that he hadn’t seen or heard anything. The Matthews had two children living with them, so John hoped the father was the right age for it to be plausible that they were friends. John told he arrived around 10 pm and left around midnight. In reality it he had arrived 21.35 and left 00.15, but no need to be that precise. He told as little as possible about what he’d done at the Matthews’ and was honest about what he’d seen in the corridors. Dent nodded and seemed happy with the testimony. John knew if they interviewed the Matthews and cross checked their stories then he would be down for a long time in prison. John was a bit surprised when he felt the swirl of excitement in his stomach at the thought. 

“I’m a bit disappointed though,” John said as they wrapped up. 

“Oh? Why?” Dent asked and looked up from his papers with a worried expression. Most likely he was worried about getting a bad review. John loved trainees. 

“I thought I was going to meet DI Lestrade. I read in the paper he was on the case.” 

“Oh, he’s giving a press conference today. But it’s not normal for the DI to take witness testimonies anyway,” he said in a light voice, sounding relieved. 

“That’s interesting,” John said like the kind, old man Dent thought he was. “What is the conference about?” Dent appeared unsure about what he was and wasn’t allowed to say, but he seemed to come to the conclusion that the conference was public anyway so it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it. 

“It’s about the recent suicides. They appear to be related.” 

“So the DI has two mayor cases going simultaneously? It must be tearing on him and his team,” John said turning the conversation in another direction. He wasn’t interested in the suicide case, he could read all about that in the papers tomorrow. 

“Yeah,” the young officer breathed out, “it’s tearing on all of us. Especially with Sherlock Holmes running around.” 

“Is he a fellow officer then?” John asked innocently. Dent almost blushed at his own indiscretion. 

“Something like that,” he mumbled and finished gathering up his notes. John _really_ loved trainees. 

- 

SHERLOCK HOLMES

John wrote the words into his internet browser and hoped he spelled it correctly. He clicked images, and immediately Coat’s icy eyes appeared on the screen. John felt his heart leap up into this throat. _Jackpot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! Did you think they would meet in this chapter? I just say: Smell you later. I think the next chapter will be an interesting one.


	6. A Study in Gunpowder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With hands clad in black leather gloves he picked up the binoculars again and peered down across the street, into the living room a storey below.
> 
> The man named Sherlock Holmes was running back and forth, trying to stop police officers from touching his things. A pretty woman with frizzy hair came out of the kitchen with a jar of something. Holmes waved at her to put it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made some changes at chapter 4. The information passed across is the same, so if you've followed the story as I've posted chapters then you don't have to go back and reread it. I just think the chapter runs more smoothly now.

John pulled up his dark hood to block out the breeze and wished he’d brought a scarf as well. It was a mild January evening, but he was getting cold from sitting on the roof for so long. He was sitting cross-legged with a pair of binoculars in his lap instead of lying on his stomach with a sniper rifle. It felt relieving to not have to bring the rifle this time. With hands clad in black leather gloves he picked up the binoculars again and peered down across the street, into the living room a storey below. The room was well lit and he had a good view of what was happening inside. 

The man named Sherlock Holmes was running back and forth, trying to stop police officers from touching his things. A pretty woman with frizzy hair came out of the kitchen with a jar of something. Holmes waved at her to put it back. John could also see a pink suitcase lying around. 

 _The hell?_ None of this made any sense at all. John shrugged to himself and had to admit that even without any sound this was much better than sitting at home and watching Big Brother. 

The gun was a cold present against the small of his back, but the hard, sleek, unyielding metal was an assuring present, like an old friend giving you a pat on the shoulder. The sniper rifle on the other hand was rather like a mistress, distant and solemn with long legs and a slim body. More often than not she thought herself too good for real labour, and she only wanted to come to the really important jobs. John had to treat her carefully like he would a lover, or else he would miss the target. When the relationship with the sniper rifle eventually would end, then the gun would be the friend you meet at the bar after the break-up, and the gun would say “Don’t worry, we’ll set you up with someone else. Do you see the brunette at the bar? Go for it.” 

The logical part of John’s brain, the part which made all the rules, had objected to bringing the gun tonight. It made it more difficult to make a believable story about some midnight bird-watching or some other sort of crazy story if he was stopped and questioned by the police. But when he’d been searching the backstreets, looking for a fire escape or other ways to get up on the roof, a homeless person had tried to rob him. When showed the barrel of the gun into his face the homeless man had scurried off, and so had the objections of the logical part of John’s brain. 

John jerked out of his wandering thoughts. A cab had pulled up at the curb right in front of 221 Baker Street. A woman answered the door, talked to the cabbie, and went back inside. Through the binoculars John would see her appear in the doorway in the living room, and Holmes turned to answer her. Clearly the cab was for him. 

John scurried to his feet. The evening was much too young to stop stalking now. There weren’t any TV-shows or anything he’d planned on catching anyway. He hurried down the fire escape and when he entered Baker Street he could still see the vehicle standing there. He had to run a good distance down the street before he found a cab for himself, and when John directed his cab back to 221 it was just in time to see Sherlock Holmes step into the car waiting for him. 

“Follow that cab, please,” John said politely. The cabbie just glanced at him. 

“You just made my day,” he answered with a flat voice. 

The route they took was weird, obviously driving in circle a couple of time and a lot of zigzag between streets, and John felt anxiety creep up his neck. Something was not quite right.  His cabbie seemed to think the same. He looked once more at the dark hoodie and nondescript jeans John was wearing and now noticed the binoculars. 

“You’re not breaking a restraining order now, are you?” the cabbie asked skeptically. 

“Of course not. Here, have a hundred. And make sure you stop the car a good distance down the street from them so they don’t notice us,” John said and handed the hundred pound bill over. The cabbie took the bill and shrugged. 

“Whatever you say.” 

They stopped a good distance down from the collage and by the time John reached the two buildings Holmes had went inside, and apparently so had Holmes’ cabbie, since the car stood outside. 

John paused. He’d only gone out tonight to do some recognition. The curiosity he felt about Holmes couldn’t be seated from home. The man’s website had In fact just made it worse. What was all this about tobacco ash anyway? But to sit on the roof across from his flat was one thing, a stalkish thing, but none the less a relatively safe thing. To follow the man into an unknown building was a foolish thing. The problem was that John wouldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling in his gut. He’d read all about the suicides of course, dead bodies turning up at abandoned locations. He was completely sure this wasn’t related, but he couldn’t help the clenching in his stomach. 

 _Live without regret,_ John thought to himself. He hadn’t seen which building they entered, but John chose the left one, the one closest to the cab.

 - 

Through the two windows, in the classroom in the building opposite, John could see Sherlock Holmes and another man, the cabbie he assumed. Holmes held a capsule between his fingers and raised it to examine it in the lamp light. 

 _No way._  

The cabbie was talking and he too was holding something. Holmes eyed the capsule so intently. The hand holding the capsule began slightly shaking as the cabbie talked. They both began raising their hands to their mouth. 

 _It’s not possible._  

John didn’t think, his mind was completely clear and blank, like a crisp autumn morning, and he knew what he had to do. He pulled the gun out from the waistband of his trousers, levered his hands and fired. The gunshot rang out more than he had expected, he’d become so accustomed to using a silencer. He saw the cabbie fall to the floor. 

He didn’t wait to see what happened. He turned on the spot and walked out of the room. He walked out of the building, out to the street, and he walked and walked and walked. He didn’t stop before he was home at his flat and falling into bed. He couldn’t remember taking the subway, but he must have. 

 _That’s the first time I’ve_ chosen _to kill someone._  

It was the last thought that passed John’s mind before he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve wanted to write this chapter since I read “In Which John is a Cuddly, BAMF Assassin” and it is why I chose to write this story. I like the idea of John killing Jeff Hope before he and Sherlock met. 
> 
> I think the next chapter will be longer than the previous chapters.


	7. A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?” The thoughtful chuckle Mike made startled John somewhat. 
> 
> “You’re the second person to tell me that in less than two weeks. I’m wondering if he’s found anyone yet. I somewhat doubt that.” 
> 
> “Who was that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now know how this timeline goes. John arrived home in London a year earlier than in the show. So ‘A Study in Pink’ happened at the same times as in the show.

John limped towards the park, his cane clutched in his hand. He was angry with himself. He’d just been home changing his clothes, but he couldn’t stay inside, he had too much pent up energy. On his way to the park his leg had started hurting again. Normally his leg would be just fine for days, sometimes even weeks, after a job. Now it had just been hours ago and the leg had already started acting up.

John was angry because he’d promised himself to stop doing this. After he’d had to give testimony at NSY he’d promised himself to never do a job again. The risk was simply too high and he’d been _that_ close to getting caught. He still couldn’t be sure he was off the hook yet. He could under no circumstances afford to get in the police’s searchlight again. 

That was two weeks ago. And since then he’d shot a cabbie to save a complete stranger and today he’d taken on another job. He felt like banging his head into a wall. Repeatedly. It was just… This woman who’d come along today, she’d discovered that her ex-husband had violated their daughter. John could kill swine like that any day of the week without payment. And his leg had been hurting exceptionally bad that morning, and just talking to her had made the pain go away. She’d already laid the plans, down to the least detail, she just needed someone to pull the trigger. John felt like a relapsing addict; the temptation had been too much. 

John grumbled as he limped along. All this guilt made the pain come back all too quickly. The upside of relapsing should be to be pain free for a little while, but no, not for this guy. Suddenly he heard someone shouting from behind him. 

“John! John Watson!” 

It took John a moment to recognize Mike Stamford, but the man took it in good humor. John wasn’t really in the mood for ‘catching up,’ but it seemed impolite to refuse coffee. At first conversation was a bit awkward when Mike asked about what John had going on since getting home and John wouldn’t elaborate more than “not much.” 

“So where are you staying these days?” 

“Just a little place I’m renting from the army. It’s all I can afford on my army pension.” John clutched the coffee cup between his hands. He would rather not talk about his shitty little bedsit, but hell, he had to talk about something. Too bad he had to pretend like he was shit broke. 

“And you couldn’t bear to leave London. That’s not the John Watson I know,” Mike said with a good natured expression. “Couldn’t Harry help?”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” John replied with a humorless laugh. 

“I don’t know, get a flatshare or something?” 

“Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?” The thoughtful chuckle Mike made startled John somewhat. 

“You’re the second person to tell me that in less than two weeks. I’m wondering if he’s found anyone yet. I somewhat doubt that.” 

“Who was that?”

- 

In the end John couldn’t come up with a good excuse why he didn’t want a flatshare. But maybe this was his chance of moving to a better flat without it looking suspicious. Then again, it would look suspicious to return home to your flatmate covered in blood and gunpowder. No, no, he was going to quit, remember?

So in the end he followed Mike to Bart’s. They entered the lab Mike led them to and John let his gaze wander around the room.

“A bit different from my day,” was all he had time to utter before his eyes fell on the man standing at the end of the workbench, dripping something to a petri dish with a pipette. The cold, analyzing stare pierced through him, like an icicle through the chest. John was sure his heart stopped. _Coat,_ he thought. _No, no. Sherlock Holmes,_ corrected the infuriatingly logical part of John’s brain. 

The man had dropped his pipette, and was up and moving before John could blink. John stood frozen as Sherlock Holmes breezed past him. Looking over his shoulder John could see Holmes placing his palms at Mike’s chest and giving the man a good push so he almost fell backwards out the lab door with a surprised shout of protest. Holmes threw the door in Mike’s face and locked the door. The click of the lock almost echoed in the now quiet room and it was at that moment John realized he was utterly and completely screwed. 

Holmes turned to John and started circling him like a predator eyeing prey. John could feel the ice from his chest had spread down his legs, all the way out to his toes, and frozen his feet to the ground. Holmes stare bore in everywhere: Under his fingernails, into his pockets, under the collar of his jacket. Absentmindedly he could hear Mike knocking furiously at the door and muted shouting. It seemed very, very far away. Finally Holmes stopped his circling and stood in front of John. 

“Yes, yes, it got to be him. Just look at his index finger. 5.58 feet. A bit lower than calculated, though” Holmes mumbled to himself. John felt himself stand up straighter without making a conscious choice of doing so. The curse of a short person in the military. “But something is not quite right…”Holmes trailed off and eyed the cane. John didn’t have time to follow his line of sight before Holmes gave the cane a good kick, sending it clattering across the floor. John realized four seconds too late that he should have fallen with it. Holmes looked smug. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” John felt thrown at the question. Wasn’t he going to be asked about the cane he apparently didn’t need? 

“Sorry?” he asked confused. 

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” Holmes asked again while he began to search for something in his inner pocket. John tried to think if his military service was a secret. No, it wasn’t, he finally concluded. His brain felt horribly sluggish. 

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know…?” he trailed off as Holmes pulled out an evidence bag with white fibers from his pocked. 

“Do you know what this is?” Holmes asked with a very superior, smug expression on his face. John felt like someone should teach him some manners, even when questioning potential serial killers. Unfortunately, he could in fact guess what those fibers were. 

“No,” he said simply with a shrug. 

“My God, you’re a bad liar. How have you survived for so long,” Holmes threw his arms in the air in a dramatic fashion. John felt a little insulted, but Holmes quickly recovered from his diva-tantrum and showed the evidence bag in John’s face. “So if I compare those fibers to those of your sweater I wouldn’t get a match?” 

John looked down at what he was wearing. It was a beige cardigan. Thinking hard John realized something. 

“No, you wouldn’t,” John answered and felt a bit smug himself. He even crossed his arms across his chest in a need to stand up to this looming figure. 

“Not lying. Aha, so another sweater then.” Holmes put the evidence bag back in his pocked, and John was a bit alarmed when Holmes stepped into his personal space and began body searching him. John held up his arms, just as if he was wading and didn’t want to get his arms wet. He didn’t know where to put them. The logical voice in John’s head asked a bit unsure if this was the point where he was supposed to call a lawyer. Wasn’t someone going to read to him his rights? Far back in John’s mind he noted that the knocking at the door had stopped. 

Holmes found John’s phone, pulled it out and… started texting on it? John wondered if this was normal procedure. And he still didn’t know where to put his arms. Holmes put the phone back in John’s jacket pocket and took out the wallet, glanced at the ID and put that back as well. John was wondering if maybe he should cross his arms across his chest again when he felt Holmes searching around in his back pocket. Any protest died on his lips as he saw Holmes draw out the string he’d forgot he had there 

“Piano wire? Really? What kind of movies have you been watching?” Holmes asked condescendingly as he held the wire taunt between his hands and examined it towards the lamp light, undoubtedly looking for human skin remains. Luckily it’d never been used for that purpose. John just had to shrug and try to keep himself from blushing. 

 “What can I say? I like pianos.” The wire was just a precaution, he’d never actually used one. If his gun jammed or anything like that while on a job he would absolutely not kill the target with his bare hands. If worse came to worse and he had to strangle someone then he wanted to be able to do it as fast and painless as possible. 

John heaved a sigh. So this was how it was going to end. He put his hands in his front pockets since Holmes was done searching them. He’d had a good run and he knew it would just be a matter of time before he was caught if he kept biting over too much. He wasn’t a Zodiac, he was John. He’d helped a few women and kept the pain at bay for a while. Prison would still be better than the smothering silence of his small bedsit just after returning from the war. He noticed the packet of Marlboro cigarettes and a lighter lying on the workbench and felt a longing. 

“Uh, Mr…” John started and trailed off purposefully. Holmes was using a cotton swab on the piano wire. 

“Please, I think we’re past introductions now. You clearly know who I am,” Holmes said as he applied a liquid to the cotton swab. 

“I’ve seen your web page,” John tried. Holmes glanced up at him and John would almost call the pull at the corner of Holmes’ lip a smile. 

“There are no pictures of me at my web page.” _Whoops._  

“I like to Google the people I read about.” Holmes just ignored John and frowned at the cotton swab when it didn’t change colour. “Mr. Holmes. Do you mind?” John asked and gestured to the cigarettes. If they were past the point of introductions then they were past the point where it was awkward to borrow each other’s things as well. 

Holmes just nodded absentmindedly and made a gesture that apparently meant ‘serve yourself.’ The ice in John’s limbs had begun melting and he was able to move his legs. On his way to the workbench Holmes put the wire back into John’s back pocket. If the man hadn’t looked so completely serious, like he couldn’t see anything wrong about what he was doing at all, John would have filed a sexual harassment complaint as soon as he was arrested by the police. John took the cigarettes and went to open a window. Holmes eyed him wearily. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t jump out of a fourth floor window. Anyway, you know who I am and would no doubt know where to find me. There’s nowhere for me to run,” John said, leaning both his elbows on the windowsill and lighting the cigarette. The first drag was as horrible as he remembered. It was wonderful. A silence fell over the room and just a faraway sound of traffic could be heard. A tension in John’s chest let go. 

Holmes went over to join him. He took a cigarette and leaned forward to light it at the cigarette dangling from John’s mouth. They stood there leaning on the windowsill. 

“You don’t smoke,” Holmes stated. It was clearly not a question. 

“No, I don’t,” John answered. Then they didn’t say any more for a while. 

The blessed silence was interrupted by Holmes’ text alert and he took his phone out to glance at it. He gave John a thoughtful, sideways stare before he texted back. 

“Come along, John. We got to go,” Holmes said as he pocketed his phone. John wondered why the man had borrowed his phone when he clearly had his own. He flicked the cigarette stump out the window and followed the taller man out the door. Once out in the street Holmes hailed a cab and gestured for John to get in. No police car then? 

As he settled down John realized he’d forgot his cane in the lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get Sherlock’s deductions in this chapter, but this was the best place to cut it off, so you have to wait until next time. But for goodness sake, please tell me what you think of their interaction! Was it canon compliant? Is it believable?


	8. A Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock? Where are we going?” he asked wearily, nervousness making his voice a bit weird.  
> “You’ll see,” Sherlock said and the smile was practically feline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m using Ariane DeVere’s transcript of A Study in Pink. http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html
> 
> I’m just reminding you, give me a line if you see any mistakes. I didn’t have internet when I wrote this so I couldn’t look up words to make sure I used them in their right meaning.

The taxi was driving along and John tried to look out the window while Holmes was busy doing something on his phone. John had to admit to himself; this didn’t very much feel like an arrest. He glanced over at Holmes, but the man didn’t even look in John’s direction. John shrugged to himself, it’s after all better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission. He got out his own phone and unlocked it. A sideways glance showed that Holmes hadn’t stirred at all. What was the harm anyway? It wasn’t like there was anyone he could text for help. The screen showed an incoming text from an unfamiliar number:

_It seems like you and Sherlock already know each other. I thought I’d leave you two alone ;) We’ll have to catch up later._

_Mike_

John frowned. What was it with that winking smiley face? Why a winking smiley face? He got distracted from his fuming when he saw the previous outgoing text to another unfamiliar number:

_If brother has green ladder arrest brother._

_SH_  

John looked over at Holmes. Who really was this man? Holmes kept staring intently at his phone and John couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at him again and again. Finally Holmes lowered his phone. 

“You’ve got questions,” he stated without any question mark at the end of it. John couldn’t deny the truth in it, though. 

“That thing… that about Afghanistan or Iraq, how did you know?” John was still holding his phone, but Holmes didn’t seem fazed by his murder suspect using a phone as he wanted. 

“Oh, I know a lot more than that,” he said, and it sounded an awful lot like showing off. 

“Mr. Holmes…” 

“Sherlock, please,” Holmes cut him off. 

“Sherlock,” John repeated. He could feel that would take some getting used to. “What else is it you know about me?” Maybe he should have said ‘what is it you _think_ you know about me’? But no, that would sound rude. Besides, John knew at least one thing that he knew that Holmes also knew. 

“I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan for about a year now. I know you’ve killed at least five people since returning home and I know you look at it as a job and will only kill those you think deserve it. I know your limp is psychosomatic and the adrenaline rush of killing someone makes the pain go away. And I know you’ve got a brother who doesn’t know about your side job and who’s worried about you. But you don’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.” John felt breathless. 

“How did… How did you know?” 

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But when you entered the room you said ‘A bit different from my day,’ so trained at Bart’s, in other words: Army doctor. Obvious. You have the kind of tan you only get from a longer stay abroad, it has faded, but not completely. I would say you’ve been back in London for a year. The tan doesn’t go above the wrists, so no sunbathing. Your limp was really bad when you entered, but the adrenaline rush you got from seeing me made you forget it, so psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan: Afghanistan or Iraq.” 

“But why do you think I…” John was swallowing around the lump in his throat. He couldn’t quite manage to call himself a killer out loud. 

“Your fingers. You’ve been handling a gun regularly for several years, the callouses don’t vanish in a year so that doesn’t prove anything.” Holmes – no, Sherlock – picked up John’s hand and pointed to his fingers. “But those aren’t callouses, those are indents from the trigger digging into your finger.” Sherlock looked John straight in the eyes and John felt a chill run down his spine. “Those vanish within a few days. Maybe you’ve been at a gun range, but there wasn’t a membership in your wallet, so unlikely. Handling a gun for another reason then. You fit the profile of a killer I’ve been following, the military service, height, haircut,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “taste in clothing. There was nothing at the crime scenes to indicate that the killer used a cane, but you’ve just proven to me that you don’t need one. I simply don’t believe in coincident. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Therefore, you got to be the killer. The police have five killings on file that’s committed with bullets form the same sniper rifle, _your_ rifle, so you’ve at least killed five people. I know you think of your killings as an occupation because you don’t like taking a life. None of the killings showed you did it for you own pleasure and neither did you show a need for attention which I come across in a lot of serial killers. Neither did you do it for money, if that had been your motivation then your type of victim would be more varied. All the victims had hurt women in some way or other, so you think they deserved to die and most likely thought it your duty to protect those women. Typical military, though wrongly righteous, thinking.” 

John had to swallow a couple of times to get his throat working. Sherlock had been holding on to John’s hand while he talked, turning it this way and that and observing everything he could. Now he put it down. 

“So if I had worn gloves today you wouldn’t have suspected me?” 

“Please, it was of course your surprise at seeing me that sat me off. Anyone seeing someone they’ve read about at the net has the right to be surprised, but you looked right down terrified. In my experience people usually has a reason for looking like they want to turn around and run when they see me. Of course I would have realized who you are within five minutes even if you hadn’t given yourself away. It would just have taken me longer to notice when I wasn’t actively looking for it.” Sherlock looked down and he seemed a little breathless himself, maybe even a little bit nervous. 

“That was amazing,” John said and cleared his throat. He hadn’t meant to say that. Sherlock’s head snapped up. 

“Do you think so?” 

“Of course it was. It was quite extraordinary,” John licked his lip and cleared his throat again. “You said something about a brother.” Sherlock picked up John’s phone from his lap. 

“Harry Watson From Clara xxx. Clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget, so a brother it is. Now, who’s Clara? Three kisses say it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Fairly new, but he’s giving it away, so _he_ ended the relationship. Tiny scuff marks around eth edge of the power connection; never see a drunk’s phone without it. He gave you the phone because he wants you to stay in touch, so he doesn’t know about the killings. Normal people don’t want to stay in touch with serial killers.” 

“Yes, extraordinary,” John breathed and took the phone back. “That entire killing bullock never happened, of course. But everything else was quite extraordinary.” Sherlock was grinning, but John didn’t know if it was because of the denial they both knew was futile, or the praise. 

“That’s not what people normally say.” 

“No? What do people normally say?” John asked curiously. 

“Piss off.” They were grinning like mad at each other and John wished feverously they could have met under other circumstances. 

The rest of the ride was a bit awkward and they tried not to look at each other, because if they did they would only start grinning again. John looked out the window and he felt the warm, relaxed atmosphere change to cold and tense as fear crept into his chest. The good mood disappeared like it had been blown away with a cold breeze. 

“Sherlock? Where are we going?” he asked wearily, nervousness making his voice a bit weird. 

“You’ll see,” Sherlock said and the smile was practically feline. 

John had a feeling this was going to be a very unpleasant afternoon, and not because they were going to the police station. They were apparently _not_ going to the police station at all, because they were in the wrong part of town, a part which was a bit too familiar to John. His worst fear was confirmed when the cab came to a stop not far from a police tape barrier. The tape was closing off a side alley, the exact same alley where John was meeting Gerry Brown just that morning. Well, he said ‘meeting’… 

John could just imagine the terrified expression on his face when he looked over at Sherlock. Sherlock just smirked back, and it looked very much like a challenge. Well, a challenge he could take. 

“Come on, John. The game is on,” he said and stepped out of the cab. 

- 

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked as they approached the police tape. 

“Apart from the whole ‘assuming John is a serial killer’-deal?” 

“Spot on then! I didn’t expect to be right about everything,” Sherlock said as if he hadn’t heard John at all. John wrinkled his nose. 

“Harry is short for Harriet.” 

“Sister! There’s always something.” Sherlock looked so exasperated it was hard for John to keep himself from smiling. 

John followed Sherlock up to the police tape barrier which was strung between two police cars to hold the small, gathering crowd at bay. John was very glad none of the spectator would get a good view down the alley where it all happened. Sherlock walked up to the barrier with such confidence that the crowd actually parted for him. John couldn’t help but admire the guy. Sherlock held up the police tape for John and when they entered the alley the woman with frizzy hair John had seen in Sherlock’s apartment walked up to them. He felt cold dread curl in his stomach. 

“What are you doing here, freak?” The tone was condescending. John would have been under exaggerating if he said he felt some tension between them.  

“I was invited. I’m here to see DI Lestrade.” The woman seemed about to argue, but then she noticed John. 

“Er, who’s this?” _Here it comes,_ John thought. 

“Colleague of mine. Doctor Watson. John, this is Sally Donovan.” The voice was leeched with poison when he added “an old friend.” 

“A colleague? How do _you_ get a colleague?” she said with a laugh in her voice. “Did he follow you home?” she asked John. If John was to be honest with himself, he had to say it felt like the other way around. 

“I’m so happy your date with Anderson went well. Do be careful not to get caught by his wife. She’s beginning to suspect something. Now, come along, John.” Sherlock strode purposefully towards a small gathering of people further down the alley, and John was moving to follow when Donovan took hold of his elbow and held him back. 

“He doesn’t _have_ friends, so who _are_ you?” Donovan said in a low voice so Sherlock wouldn’t hear. John hadn’t felt fear like this since he was shot. 

“I’m… I’m nobody. I just met him,” John forced out. He felt ice cold inside, and his whole body was spent like if he was ready for fight or flight.

“Okay. A bit of advice then; stay away from that guy. Do you know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it, he gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.” Donovan didn’t let go of his stare at all. This very much felt like a challenge as well, even if she most likely hadn’t meant it as such. 

“Why would he do that?” 

“Because he’s a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored.” 

 _Yes,_ John thought, _psychopaths get bored._ Was that what John was? A psychopath? He’d never considered it. Should he have felt more remorse? Should he have cried himself to sleep every night? He thought about the choice of accepting a job or not as an equation: What would lead to most unhappiness; letting the swine live or die? John didn’t think that made him a psychopath. He still hated to kill, but sometimes it was for the best. John almost smiled to himself. _She should have this conversation with Sherlock, not me._  

“I’ll keep it in mind,” John said, gave her a pleasant smile and shrugged off her hand as he walked away.

John felt amazing. She hadn’t suspected a thing! He was buzzing with adrenaline and Sherlock was waiting for him to catch up and smiling slyly like he knew exactly what they’d been talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I’d planned to end the chapter when they stepped out of the cab, but then I was without internet and began writing the next chapter and thought: Hey, why not post it all? 
> 
> A lot of the dialogue is directly from the show. Does that make it boring to read? I promise I’m done with the recap of the series. From now on it’s Ragnhild running the show!


	9. Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That doesn’t explain why he fired three shots.” Sherlock turned to John. “Doctor Watson, do these bullet wounds seem panicked?”  
> “No, they don't. It seems very deliberate,” he had to admit.

They walked towards the gathering of people around where John knew Garry Brown was laying. He could see DI Lestrade, and other people he assumed were forensics since they walked around in blue overalls and taking pictures.

John felt a tingle down his spine. This was a dangerous game to play and he loved it. Once he’d get past his initial panic and began thinking ‘oh, to hell with it’ he could really enjoy himself. He’d always wanted to know what happened after he left the scene, and more up close than this he couldn’t possibly get. He was walking the razors’ edge anyway; no more than thirty minutes earlier he’d thought he was going to the police station.

“Who’s this?” the DI asked when Sherlock approached with John in tow.

“He’s with me.” Sherlock said as he took a pair of disposable gloves out of his pocket. Maybe he’d caught up to the fact that John didn’t need an introduction with this one. Hard to know.

“But who is he?” Lestrade persisted while waving at the forensics to clear off. A couple of them gave Sherlock nasty glares before leaving.

“I said he’s with me,” Sherlock almost sneered at the DI. Surprisingly the DI just sighed and let it go. As soon Lestrade turned his back Sherlock sent John an eyeroll, just like saying ‘can you believe they’re such idiots?’

Sherlock crouched down next to Garry Brown, but John didn’t feel especially inclined to study the corpse. Instead he looked around eyeing all the people working at the crime scene. The opposite end of the alley, the closest one now, was also cut off with police cars and police tape. John let his stare sweep over it when he noticed a person sitting in the open door of one of the cars. She looked much smaller than John remembered, wrapped in an orange shock blanket. Her short hair was a cloud of brown, almost reddish, curls around her face, but it was even messier than last he saw her, like she’d stressfully combed her fingers through it repeatedly. Her girlish, freckled face looked haggard and worn. John looked at Jessica Brown until their gazes met, and then he gave her a small nod. He could see her freeze and visibly pale. Did she think he was working with the police? Yeah, he guessed he would be afraid as well if he was in her place.

John looked over to where Sherlock was leaning over the corpse only to see the man looking straight at him with a knowing smirk. Apparently Sherlock had seen the whole transaction. Luckily he was right back to examining the deceased and none of the police officers were the wiser.

“The wife told us they’d been separated for three months, but were going to give the marriage another shot for the sake of their daughter. They were on their way to an early lunch to celebrate when they got mugged and the husband was shot. The wife blames herself: She said she used this shortcut all the time, but the mugger must have been attracted by her pearls. She only uses them for special occasions. We haven’t been able to locate either the pearls or the man’s wallet,” the DI explained in a voice which suggested he’d seen the likes many times before and he didn’t like it.

No, of course they wouldn’t find the pearls, John thought. He had travelled halfway across town just to throw them in a kip far away from both the crime scene and his home.

“The bullets seem to…” Lestrade began, but Sherlock cut him off.

“I don’t want to speculate before they finish ballistics,” he said and Lestrade let it go. “Doctor Watson, what do you think?” Sherlock directed at John while prying open the dead man’s shirt. It was difficult because of the dried blood.

“What?” John asked confused.

“Of the body. You’re a medical man,” Sherlock said in a light voice. Lestrade complained, but Sherlock waved him off.

For the first time since seeing him alive and in the flesh, John looked at Garry Brown. His hair was dirty blond, and he reminded John a tiny bit of himself, just taller and his face was somewhat rougher and more angular. His skin was pale. No, not only pale, more like gray, especially under the eyes which were wide open. The blood looked dark like sin against the asphalt. However many people John had ‘taken care of’ he’d never looked at them. The only dead he’d seen were the ones he lost at the operation table, and somehow that was different. While they made him feel a seemingly endless sorrow, seeing Garry Brown made him feel cold dread.

John glared at Sherlock, but the infuriating man just grinned back like saying ‘humor me,’ and offered John a pair of disposable gloves. John took the offered gloves and stepped closer. This seemed almost disrespectful towards the body, John thought. The line ‘the body isn’t even cold yet’ felt strangely appropriate, but not completely literal as he learned when he touched the cold neck. He looked at the man’s eyes, opened his mouth and peered down this throat, and checked under fingernails before he moved the shirt which was brown by dried blood from the three gunshot wounds. Someone on forensics apparently had dug out the bullets already.

“It seems like he died quickly. One of the bullets pierced his heart, he wouldn’t even had time to bleed out.” He looked up at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. ‘Happy now?’ he tried to convey.

“A sound analysis, but what is not quite right about that sentence?” Sherlock asked, and he was almost bouncing form exited energy. When John and Lestrade just looked at him confused he continued. “You said ‘one of the bullets.’ Why were there three?”

“The wife said her husband willingly gave away his wallet, but when the mugger moved to take her pearls he stepped in to defend her. The mugger panicked and fired his gun,” Lestrade said while flipping through his notebook, probably to see if he’d missed something.

“That doesn’t explain why he fired three shots.” Sherlock turned to John. “Doctor Watson, do these bullet wounds seem panicked?”

John hadn’t realized his mistake before now. He looked down at Garry Brown again and the bullet wounds in the chest. They were making a perfect little triangle. Apparently his need to end it quickly and painlessly was his greatest mistake. He met Sherlock’s stare and there was a challenge there. Was the man teaching him what he was doing wrong? He didn’t like to think of compassion as a weakness, but maybe it was in this game.

“No, they don't. It seems very deliberate,” he had to admit, there was no hiding it. Sherlock looked pleased, like it was exactly what he wanted to hear. With a swirl and a flash of his coat the detective was off and approaching Jessica Brown. John and Lestrade followed as fast they could while the DI muttered ‘no, no, no, you don’t,’ but Sherlock was looming over the woman in no time.

“Missus. Why did the killer fire three shots?” Sherlock asked without introducing himself. Jessica looked up at him through her reddish curls with an expression like he was an approaching train.

“I-I-I don’t know. He panicked,” she stuttered out.

“What did he look like?” Sherlock asked just as John joined him at his side and Jessica’s stare flicked over to the doctor against her own will. Her freckles were extra prominent against her ash-pale skin.

“I-I don’t know. He was wearing a dark hoodie.” Her gaze kept going to John and she had to visibly steel herself to keep her eyes on Sherlock. “I didn’t really see his face. It all happened so fast.”

“What about his height?” Sherlock said and looked around like looking for inspiration before his gaze fell on John. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Was he about John’s height? And please don’t say ‘I don’t know.’ I hate repetition.” John could have strangled the man right there. He had never run over a dove, and didn’t know what kind of expression one would have, but Jessica’s face in that moment gave him a pretty good idea.

“I, er… A bit taller maybe?” Lestrade decided to save her by forcibly dragging Sherlock away.

“I need the ballistics before I can say anything for certain,” Sherlock said as soon they were out of earshot.

“Come on! There got to be something you can give me,” Lestrade complained. John had no idea what Sherlock was playing at.

“So far this is no more than a four. You know better than to call me in for anything less than a six. The robbery across the street on the other hand has potential.”

“What robbery?” Lestrade said and whirled around. John turned as well. Past the police tape, across the street, was a souvenir store, but he couldn’t see anything amiss. “There’s no robbery…” the DI started as Sherlock sat off at a run towards the store.

It was strange, but John actually felt more involved in the community after he started killing people for hire. Before he didn’t want to get involved in things that didn’t have anything to do with him, he might for example walk straight past if he saw a man being nasty to a woman. The risk of getting involved was too high. But now he caught himself now and again stepping in and asking a man to ‘fuck the hell off’ if he thought the man was being impropriate, or he would berate a school kid who tried to take a classmate’s lunch money. Maybe it was because he felt he didn’t have anything to lose, or maybe he was more used to not hesitating. No matter the reason, he was now more inclined to give into instinct and  _act_  if something happened. Maybe that was why when Sherlock sat off John followed, without hesitation or the slightest doubt, before Lestrade even got to end his sentence.

They ran past forensics, under the police tape, and across the street. John followed Sherlock around the corner of the store just in time to see two young blokes with backpacks exiting through the employer entrance. When they saw Sherlock and John they almost tumbled over each other to get away in the opposite direction.

Sherlock and John had good speed and with Sherlock’s long legs he easily caught up with the slowest thief and tackled him to the ground. John decided to trust Sherlock had his thief under control and ran straight past them to catch up with the other one. This one was a bit faster, but John gave it all he had and threw himself after him. He got hold around the young bloke’s legs and tripped him. John lay with his weight over the thief’s legs, but he couldn’t reach the guy’s arms to incapacitate him because he was clawing at the asphalt and struggling as best he could. If John couldn’t get a proper hold on him then he would slip away. John reached into his back pocket and got the piano wire. Because of his frantic struggling the thief didn’t notice the wire had been slipped around his neck before it began tightening over his windpipe. John could feel the moment the thief realized he couldn’t get enough air because he tensed and froze.

“I would get up  _slowly_  and do as I say if I were you,” John whispered into the young man’s ear. The doctor loosened the wire enough to let the man breath freely, but not so much that he wouldn’t feel the taunt wire across his neck, and they stood up slowly together. Since John didn’t have anything to tie the man’s hands with he just kept the wire over the neck and urged him to walk back toward where Sherlock was in the middle of handcuffing his own thief.

“I assume you want this guy alive?” John asked casually, but immediately nearly blushed. That had practically been a confession. Sherlock looked up from his cuffing to see John’s choice of incapacitating. He smiled that feline smile again.

“As much as I’d enjoyed seeing you in action I would appreciate handing him over alive, yes,” Sherlock said in such a way that John was sure he was blushing now. John’s thief cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, but I’m actually about to be arrested here. Please have some respect and save the flirting for later,” the thief said a bit cockily, John thought, but he just shook his head and smiled before pushing the cocky bastard in Sherlock’s direction to get handcuffed.

-

The adrenaline high didn’t recline before they were at New Scotland Yard. John had actually forgot his fear of going to the police station from earlier that day, and right now he couldn’t believe he was there to give statement and not be arrested himself. He even saw officer Dent in the corridors and gave him a smile and a nod. Luckily Dent only looked confused and stared a bit after John, but didn’t say anything about it.

John and Sherlock gave statement in separate rooms and John decided to be true to his rules of keeping as much as possible to the truth and saying as little as possible. He started his recollection from when Sherlock mentioned the robbery across the street and he sensibly let out the detail with the piano wire.

“But how did you turn up at the crime scene with Mr. Holmes?” his ‘interrogator’ asked confused.  _Damn it_ , John though. He had no idea how Sherlock would explain it. John mentally recited his rules to himself.

“I don’t know actually. We just met today and he simply pulled me into a cab and took me there. I didn’t even know where we were going before we arrived.” John was astonished when his interrogator just shook his head dejectedly and asked no more. If John had known he would take it that way then he would have come up with something a bit more colourful just to see if the man would accept it.

-

Sherlock grabbed onto John when he stepped out of the Yard and dragged him into a waiting cab. John was all too relieved of how the day had went to worry about where they were going. He now knew better than to expect an answer if he asked anyway.

Turned out they were going to Baker Street. John stepped out of the cab and turned to 221B. Sherlock looked up from paying the cabbie and studied John who was walking toward the right door without needing directions.

“You’ve been following me,” he reasoned, his voice a bit surprised. “I thought I would have noticed.” They walked up to Sherlock’s flat together, and once inside John walked straight over to one of the living room windows and peeked out through the curtains. It was starting to get dark this early spring evening and John looked across the street towards the darkening roof against the blue-grey sky. He could almost feel the hard, cold tiles against his backside still. Sherlock joined him by the window and followed his stare.

“Aha,” Sherlock sounded triumphant. “Yes, I should have noticed.”

“What am I doing here, Sherlock?” John asked, still looking out the window, looking up and down the street; unconsciously searching for treats.

“You’ll take the upstairs bedroom. You can’t move in there tonight, though. You’ll have to take the couch. It’s all too dusty up there and there are no sheets. I’ll make Mrs. Hudson prepare the room tomorrow…”

“Wow, wow, wow. Slow down. What are you talking about?” Now Sherlock had John’s undivided attention and John was holding up his hands as to say ‘stop, stop.’

“Stamford brought you to introduce you to me because you’re looking for a new place to stay, and I think we’ve been properly introduced by now.”

“But I, I…” John was struggling for words, for any logical comeback, but Sherlock just turned and tossed his coat over an armchair before vanishing into the kitchen. John was left standing stuttering until he gave it up and threw his hands in the air. He turned around, observing the living room, while running his hand nervously through his hair. He stood there looking until he heard Sherlock’s text alert.

“Could you see what Lestrade want?” Sherlock’s voice called from the kitchen. John huffed and went to Sherlock’s coat where he’d heard the sound. The phone didn’t even have a lock screen. Stupidity, confidence or laziness? The text read:

_You didn’t explain how you knew about the robbery in the souvenir store, you tosser. I shouldn’t have to be present to make sure you give your statement correctly. You know this shit by now. You better come in tomorrow._

_Lestrade_

But it was the text from earlier that day that really caught John’s attention:

_Mugging gone wrong. Three bullets in victim’s chest. Same caliber as in the cabbie case. Possible connection? You interested?_

_Lestrade_

John froze. Did Sherlock know he shot the cabbie? No, not yet. He suspected, and the best way to verify it was to take John to the scene of the robbery/murder to see how John would react. John had in fact given himself away even before they arrived at the scene because he thought Sherlock  _knew_  it was him. Now he just had to wait for ballistics to verify that John killed the cabbie as well. Sherlock would know who had saved his life that day. John felt like banging his head against a wall.

The detective entered the room and threw a blanket at John’s face. He ended up falling asleep at Sherlock’s couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of making this a series and only have one more chapter in this particular story. That way "Blogger for Hire" can be read as gen and the sequel will be a friends to lovers story. I also have one or two one-shots planned ;)


End file.
